The Scalp Hunter
by eielsondm
Summary: I'm not sure where I'm going with this one, it just came to me one night and I had to get it on to paper.  There is more to come, but this is the first part.  I truly welcome reviews.  Thanks for reading my work.


The old man sat by his fire in the teepee at the center of camp. His thoughts were heavy on his heart. The world had changed and the presence of the great spirit had been missing from his people. The whites had chased away the old ways. Young ones could no longer become men by the traditions of his people. The herds that once shook the earth when they passed no longer could be found. The people were no longer free to live as human beings. They were caged in by soldiers, forced to beg like dogs for food and supplies.

The lines that creased the old man's brow had deepened. He was weary. The soldier's visit to the village today had aged him. He could see the end of his people. He could see that their ways would be forgotten. This he could not allow.

The soldier came to ask about the one he calls the scalp hunter. This name was not given to him by his own people. He had earned it in the blood of the whites. He had once been a peace loving man. The soldiers made him what he is. The scalp hunter watched as soldiers, led by Indian scouts massacred his village. They killed his wife, and children. They thought to kill him, but their bullet didn't win.

Now he has hunted soldiers, whites, and Indians alike. He stalks and kills all that cross his path. He takes their hearts and stares into their eyes. He steals their power and claims their souls for his own.

The soldier warned that the white chief did not see the scalp hunter as a madman; but as a savage, living among savages. The white army believed that the people hide the scalp hunter and that they too should be punished.

The soldier promised to help the people, if they would lead him to this murderer. The old man knew enough of white man's promises, but believed the second promise. If the scalp hunter was not caught, the soldier chief would bring death to the people, and all would be lost.

The decision the old man must now make weighed heavy on his heart. To help find the scalp hunter would be to serve the white chief's own lust for death, but it was the only way to save his people. So it must be.

The old man called forth the men of his tribe and told them of his plan. They did not like it, but saw the wisdom of it. And so they agreed.

The next night, two scouts led the soldier to Broken Stone. They knew the scalp hunter would come. He would follow them. He would see the white man enter the place sacred to the spirits and he would be angered. He would come to kill them, and it was there that he in turn must be killed.

The place called Broken Stone was near the foot hills of the high mountains. A large boulder had been split by lightning. When the great rock split, it revealed a cave once used by the old ones. Their paintings could still be seen on the walls. Many wise men had come and seen the strength the spirit world had here. Today these spirits would be used to stop a murderer.

Bringing the soldier to such a sacred place would anger the spirits. The scouts prayed to the grandfather sky for forgiveness, and promised this was meant to save the lives of the people. A fire was lit as the sun fell behind the mountains. Many trees had spread to this area, so the fire was kept low. Both the scouts and the soldier settled in, pretending to relax. They knew the scalp hunter was close, and did not want to ruin the trap.

The cool mountain breeze brought with it the howls of the coyote, and the chatter of the night birds. The moon hung in the sky like the eye of an angry wolf. There was no peace in the night, and the scouts began to wonder if their prayers had gone unanswered.

The soldier didn't seem to feel the mood of the night. He began to drift to sleep. The scouts found this strange. Perhaps the whites could not hear the anguish of the world they were creating. Perhaps this is why they did the things only white men do.

All of the braves knew that this white man had lost his brother to the scalp hunter. His need for vengeance drove him away from his fellow soldiers and brought him from the other side of the plains to the lands of their tribe. All could feel the desire and hatred this white man felt for the scalp hunter. After all he had been through, on the eve of his great battle with his enemy, he slept. The scouts shook their heads in dismay. The ways of the whites would always remain a mystery.

It was then that the scalp hunter made his move, firing three silent arrows one after another. The first buried itself into the inner thigh of a scout. The second silenced him forever, striking his neck. The brave fell with a gurgle of blood.

The third arrow caught the other brave in the eye, dropping him like a stone. His death cry was short but terrible.

The soldier was slow to rise. It gave the scalp hunter all the advantage he needed. He swept forward with his knife in hand. This soldier had followed him for many months, chasing him like the hound chases the rabbit, but he was no rabbit and tonight he proved that to this white man.

The shout from the scout brought Dylan to his feet, rifle in hand. He turned in each direction, but found no sign of his enemy. The low fire did nothing to help his search. He was hunting a ghost. The scalp hunter almost never left witnesses, and had never been caught. There were many though, that heard his cries of victory, and the cries of his victims.

The wind began to pick up. Leaves and dust blew in his face. He shielded his eyes for only a moment and suddenly his enemy was upon him. For a fraction of an instant, Dylan saw his enemy clearly. The soldier saw sorrow and madness reflected in the Indian's eyes. Too many things had happened to concern himself with the reasons for the savages rampage, the only thing that could be done now was to bring it to an end.

The painted face of the scalp hunter summoned images of the death and horror visited upon his people by the whites. His eyes filled with the maddening pain of loosing his family. His body was covered in mud. An angry red scar rose from his left shoulder where a soldier had hit him with a lucky shot of his rifle. His feet carried him soundlessly across the rock.

With his knife held high, the scalp hunter came in fast, allowing an ear piercing war cry to escape his mouth. If sheer ferocity were enough, the soldier would already be dead. Luckily for Dylan, it wasn't.

His riffle came up in a defensive sweep, one hand on the stock, the other on the barrel. The savage's knife never made it to its target. With a loud crack, the Indian's wrist snapped as it impacted with the riffle.

Without a second thought, the Indian threw his forehead forward and connected violently with the side of Dylan's head. Light flashed before the soldier's eyes and the ground swooned under his feet. Nearly losing his balance, he stumbled and dropped his riffle. He felt rather that saw his opponent grab him about the waist and throw him to the ground. As his head and back hit the ground, the air exploded from his lungs. He fought to keep the darkness that threatened to take hold of him. The savage's hands closed around his throat. Desperate for air, Dylan pressed his thumbs into the eyes of the savage. Suddenly he could gulp air. The savage was no longer on top of him.

Scrambling to his feet, Dylan drew his hunting knife and tried to focus past the blurriness and the ringing in his ears. With a quick glance around the camp, he found his quarry wiping blood from his torn eyelid. There was no time to waste, Dylan let loose a roar of his own and charged the Indian. Had he remained silent, he might have been done with this fight already. Instead, the Indian dropped to his knees and reached up to grab the wrist of the knife hand. Simultaneously, he thrust his second hand up and caught the soldier between he soldier's legs. With a great grunt of effort, the scalp hunter used Dylan's own momentum against him, lifting him into the air, turning him over and dropped him on the stony ground so quickly, Dylan was unaware of the situation until the air again exploded from his lungs.

His mind whirled and the fight nearly left him. Dylan had traveled a long way to confront this man, but he had never seen someone move so fast. His mind went back to the final reason he had come here. He thought of the promise he had made to his grieving brother's widow. He swore to bring to justice the creature that had killed his younger brother, and now it seemed he would lose his own life to that same murdering savage. Deep in the back of his mind he remembered the look on that poor young girl's face as she sobbed and told Dylan how she was to give birth and her child would never know its father.

Sudden hatred for the beast that had cut out his brother's heart fueled him. He rose and turned to face the murderer as he found renewed strength. It seemed that a small piece of the madness that fueled the scalp hunter had now infected his own heart. He attempted to scream at the man before him, but the sound was cracked and pitiful, a broken sound that was barely formed from his bruised and damaged throat.

The soldier and the madman clashed again, this time on more equal footing, both fueled by hatred and loss. In the last fraction of a second, the scalp hunter lowered his hand to protect it from any further damage. It was a small disadvantage, but one Dylan took full advantage of. Dylan's right hand, the one with the knife, surged forward and caught his opponent just below the ribs. The knife tore through the skin and flesh, thrusting upward and into his vital organs. The Indian was dead before he hit the ground.

It wasn't for a many seconds that Dylan realized that he too had been stabbed. The blade of his enemy had penetrated his left shoulder by a little more than an inch. As the Indian man had fallen, the blade was pulled out, but not without slicing a vertical gash in that same shoulder.

With another gurgled cry of pain, Dylan fell to the ground and felt his whole arm go numb. He turned his head so that he could get better air, and ended up staring into the eyes of the man he had just killed. Some deep recess in his mind tried to tell him that it was justice that the Indian was dying; but as he saw the life drain form the scalp hunter's eyes, he could only think that he would carry this man's death on his own soul forever. Then there was darkness, sweet and cold.


End file.
